


The Eye That Cannot Face The Sun

by purple_cellophane



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Angst, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky is heartbroken and adoring, Gilmore is a dickhead, Jealous Bucky, M/M, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Slight Canon Divergence, Top Bucky Barnes, on the whole canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 22:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15375012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cellophane/pseuds/purple_cellophane
Summary: Tracking Steve and Bucky through their lives in three stages: 1940's mutual pining, Winter Soldier era angst and post-hydra era reconciliation.Three parts will therefore be posted.I hope you enjoy :)





	The Eye That Cannot Face The Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whathohoratio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whathohoratio/gifts).



> A few words before we start. First of all, this isn’t an AU per se, however it is canon divergent. For example, Sarah Rogers has not died although is very sick, and Bucky never left with the 107th while Steve was getting his army on. Also, obviously, Steve is not dating Gilmore Hodges in the MCU. Jesus. These details had to change to give me the opportunity to tell the story I wanted to tell. This fic will be split into 3 parts. Trigger warning for violence and depictions of harm for the 2nd.

_“You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since - on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with.”_  
\- Charles Dickens

 

Steve’s fair head of hair was painted an even lighter colour, drenched in sunlight, spilling across his features and Bucky would have reached out to stroke it on that mild Wednesday afternoon if it were not for the troublesome companion Steve had brought to lunch with them. Steve was quiet, unusually so - a kind of revealing silence that laid bare the shallowness of their exchanges and how little they really had to talk about. The heavy-footed silence was insufferable, closing in on the edges of Bucky’s sanity like a humid fog, and settling there to metastasise. He wanted to shake Steve’s limp and surrendered shoulders, slap him even, kiss him, ask him what he was doing dating such a colossal asshole.

It was Valentine’s Day, and Bucky didn’t know when the importance of that graduated from a simple acknowledgement to something that deserved celebrating - so unlike either of them - but he was beginning to learn that he knew less and less of what Steve could be like.

Gilmore swayed drunkenly before them, despite it being mid-afternoon. His uniform strained against the buttons across his belly and his square, dimpled chin rested too far into his neck. Small, hungry eyes swallowed Steve’s frail form up like he was the last drop of water in the desert.

Bucky watched on silently, excluded from their discussion. Animated from one end, quiet and submissive from the other. He busied himself by watching Steve’s delicate hold on his cutlery, as if they could slip from his pale and knobbly fingers at any moment. Bucky loved those fingers. He loved watching them draw, an urgency to their grip as if they were desperately seeking after something. He loved watching them do anything really, marvelling at the simple domestic sublimities of how he went about his day, self-contained and unaware of how helplessly smitten Bucky was. Because of this, Bucky could fall into the most spectacular moods when he felt the moment deemed appropriate. Foul-mouthed and callous, unfocused in his anger as his heart hammered harder, screaming for his attention at the injustice of it all.

Gilmore lounged languidly back in his chair, fingers interlocked under his belly, giving Steve an appreciative glance up and down. Bucky watched them over the rim of his glass and seethed.

“You didn’t get me a Valentine's gift?” Came Steve’s voice, uncharacteristically meek and stiffly awkward, which went unnoticed to everyone but Bucky. 

Oh, how Gilmore had ruined Steve. From brash, loud and obdurate to this horrible docile, piteous rendition of all he used to be. It was disgusting. Bucky hated Gilmore intimately, for what he’d done.

Gilmore harrumphed heartily at the suggestion, tipping his head back, his shoulders bouncing. Neither Bucky nor Steve spoke, but exchanged a single glance, of which Steve was the first to break. Steve rarely met his eyes anymore, anyway.

The silence registered, and Gilmore frowned. “Oh.” He said, chewing the inside of his mouth. He stank of cigarettes, as did most people in Brooklyn. His frown turned mischievous and he smirked, slipping his meaty hand to cover Steve’s. “Tell you what, you and me go home now and I’ll give you the best sex of your life.” He shuffled forward, raising his eyebrows.

Steve looked like he could cry. He gave some crumpled copy of a smile and a dejected laugh. Bucky’s heart ached.

Bucky went home that night, listening to the windows shuddering in their frames against the gale outside. With the mattress sighing under his weight, Bucky glared into the darkness of the bedroom and thought about having Steve in his arms right now. He wondered whether they had gone home and had sex. He thought about Steve’s small body under Gilmore’s, neglected and not cared for the way it should be, the image of Gilmore’s body rolling off Steve like a boulder once he was done with him and falling asleep. He thought about Steve crying after that. He thought about what it would be like to kill Gilmore; station himself up a high building a send a bullet through the window into his chest.

That evening Bucky ignored the heartache at the edges of his awareness and busied his mind with what was before him. Most things had left Bucky over the years, but Steve was the subject of the only determined resistance he had made in all these wretched, war torn years. Uncapped fury rumbled and crackled beneath his trained, sterile expression, for no one to witness and for it yet to remain.

Yet sometimes the bottle-top of life resists ones most determined grip, and Bucky could not force anything, least of all his friend’s feelings for him.

The split in the road occurred on a particularly cold and wet winter day. Bucky had almost sworn off going at the last moment, but the rain seemed easier to bear than the mounting impatience of drills and papers, so he went. 

He rapped his knuckles at Steve’s door, more as a polite gesture than a request before letting himself in. He was met with a hushed hum from Steve’s bedroom acknowledging his presence, so Bucky took off his cap and jacket, hung them on the hooks by the door, slipped off his shoes and padded into Steve’s room.

He sat huddled in old blankets on his bed, a sketch book in hand with a dozen or so rumpled tissues gathered like crumbs and strewn about his bed. He awarded Bucky with a weak smile and Bucky took the signal to come closer and sit down.

It happened when they were both quietly enjoying the close proximity they shared with each other as Steve practised figure drawing using Bucky as his model (although it was albeit non-consensual). They talked about everything and nothing, giving each other silent feedback by the brush or nudge of a shoulder. Bucky had been amusing himself by imitating Steve’s concentration face and Steve’s smile was so large and genuine and he was grinning and laughing and he was _so gorgeous_ just like that, that the words had slipped from Bucky’s lips with catastrophic ease.

Steve’s smiled faltered and slipped and he scrambled backwards to Bucky’s horror and dismay.

Anyone could anger Steve, but only Bucky could upset him like this.

He denied it, yelled, screamed, ordered Bucky out of the house and into the bitterly cold wind, rain pelting down like a punishment against him. The door slammed, and Bucky stood there for a while, shell-shocked and hurt, left in the rain alone.

 

______________________

 

He downed the rest of his drink then and considered himself. A sad, drowned man; on his own in a bar with a book and a mountain of unreciprocated feelings. It would just be a moment before Steve walked in with Gilmore - this sacred meeting place of theirs tarnished and disfigured into an ugly reminder of what had passed, and how different things were now.

_I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me and live in me again. Till then my windows ache._

Bucky read, reading it again, then once more for good measure. 

_Remind me not to weep over this strange, strange life._

Reality had taken a hammer to Bucky’s dreams - or were they perhaps mere delusional fantasies?

Imaginations that kept the heart beating frantically, or hopeful hallucinations? Who had taken up a sponge and wiped away the entire horizon into a patchwork of greys? He put the book down, blaming it for throwing him into a melancholic mood. He settled down in the shadows of his anonymity to those who didn’t know him, and the disapproval from those who did; and turned his back into the quiet stillness of being truly alone.

Steve stopped asking him to come out for lunches. Bucky wondered whether Steve had told Gilmore about his confession, and discovered that he didn’t really care. He was bitterly selfish; defencelessly yielding to love’s grand persuasion. The world was coloured by Steve - finding him in little pieces of the world he saw as he went about his day, his week, his year, his life. 

Bucky found himself day-dreaming at the most inopportune times about kissing him. He’d imagine holding hands, or holding Steve between his hands, and keeping him there while ministering all the love and kindness that the world had forgotten to give him. Steve would have to be on his tip-toes to reach Bucky, of course, and Bucky imagined pulling him in closer by his waist, being careful and gentle when encouraging Steve’s mouth open with his own. He thought about these things until his heart throbbed and ached.

But the world was not gentle, and it seemed Bucky had been left behind in his own wishes for it to be so.

Steve walked in then, cheeks flushed at the cold and nose tinted red. Gilmore tailed him possessively, a hand on his shoulder, steering him into the warmth of the bar.

Trumpets wailed from the back, a small stage set up for the best of Brooklyn’s extravagant and outrageous jazz scene. It never used to fail to put a smile on either of their faces, but right now Bucky was solemn and Steve didn’t even seem to notice.

“Bucky!” Gilmore exclaimed heartily. His breath was awash with cigarettes and alcohol.

“Gilmore.” Bucky muttered, less heartily. When had he transformed from “James” to “Bucky” in Gilmore’s vernacular? Bucky certainly had not allowed it. Yet the causal nickname indicated that Steve had clearly not told Gilmore of what he had said three nights prior, and he tried to lock eyes with Steve, but Steve’s eyes remained firmly locked to the ground, avoiding his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

He slapped a hand down on Steve’s slim shoulder, causing Steve to stumble slightly. Couldn’t he see how miserable he looked? “Just grabbing a bite to eat before heading back home. If you’re staying, you’re welcome to join us.”

“No, thank you.” It was Steve who spoke though, not Bucky. “I think we’re fine on our own.” He fixed Bucky an indecipherable look. He started to walk off, to find another seat, but Bucky was desperate to talk to his friend again. He missed him so much that it hurt.

“Steve, wait!” Bucky cried, leaping off his stool and going to catch Steve by the arm. The desperation and hurt in his voice shocked even himself. 

Steve turned back to face Bucky, tense. His eyes scampered over to where Gilmore stood, assessing for danger, and, finding none, turned his baby blue eyes back to Bucky. “Hey, Bucky.” Came his small voice.

“Hi.” He responded breathily, his brain wiped of sensibility and what he had intended to say.

“You’re hurting me.” Steve said quietly.

“What?”

“My arm.” Steve clarified. “You’re hurting my arm.”

“Oh.” Bucky said, and released his grip with reflexive speed. “I’m sorry.”

For a while neither spoke to the other, simply looking at each other. Bucky found himself wishing he could tell what Steve was thinking, or feeling. He was so closed off these days that even Bucky found it hard to tell sometimes. 

“If you’ve not got anything to say, I’m hungry and I’ll see you later.” Steve said, trying to shoulder his way out of Bucky’s gaze and around him back to Gilmore.

“Wait, no, Steve,” he said, catching his hand. Why was his so cold? Was it okay for Steve to be out in the cold weather like this, as sick as he was? “I want to talk to you.”

Steve glanced down at their connected hands, and froze, a mental dilemma apparent. Reluctantly, Bucky slipped his hand from Steve’s and Steve breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. We can talk after food. I’m sorry for saying you can’t stay. You’re welcome to. Stay, I mean.”

There are many things Bucky would rather do than watch Steve with another man, but the prospect of getting to talk to him motivated him enough to agree.

This time, Steve sat next to Bucky instead of in front of him. Their knees bumped and Steve’s breath hitched. Neither moved their legs away.

Gilmore spoke between mouthfuls of food, washing it down too quickly with beer. “Why don’t we get Steve to pay for dinner?” He joked. “I hear there’s plenty of money in the arts. Why don’t you do one of your little doodles on the napkin here, see how much it pays off the tab.” He laughed harder. “Hell, it could even be a tip. One of Steve Rogers’ first originals.” 

Steve’s head hung, and Bucky reached out to hold onto Steve’s hand under the table. He clutched on hard, and Bucky laced their fingers together. 

“Can’t keep relying on me to pay for your things, Stevie.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed at the nickname, a surge of anger roaring up inside of him. He gripped Steve’s hand so hard he felt his arm start shaking.

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to get a job. A real job.” Gilmore shovelled more food into his mouth, seemingly fine with the words and insults that were spilling from his greasy lips. He sucked the remaining juices from his thumb, pulling it from his mouth with a sickening pop.

“I told you, I’m going to enlist.” Steve said. “Then I’ll be on active duty and you won’t need to spend any money on me anymore.”

Gilmore hummed absent-mindedly. “Bringing your mother with you then, are you?”

Oh. Bucky thought. _Oh_. He snapped his gaze to Steve - was this what this was all about? His _mother_? His body started firing up excitedly, the prospect of a resolution, a reason. They were things he could work with. Dots came together, and things clicked into place. Steve’s stubborn refusal to look at him only confirmed it further.

“You in the army, though.” Gilmore laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold.” 

Steve began to sigh, but stifled it.

“I think you’d be great.” Bucky spoke up, taking off his own cap for good measure. “Maybe not the heavy-duty stuff, but light infantry, maybe. You’ve certainly got enough heart for the rest of us.”

Steve smiled weakly at him in thanks. It was small, and a wilted version of what used to be there, but it made Bucky’s heart glow all the same.

“Is it you, then?” Gilmore scowled. “You’re the one who’s been putting silly ideas like that into his head?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I think he’s put them there all on his own.” He said, unable to keep the fondness from colouring his tone. “And, for the record, if I was working here I’d take any one of his ‘doodles’ as payment. Especially if one of them is of you getting shot on duty.” He smiled widely.

Steve snorted into his glass, attempting to school his expression guiltily. 

“I don’t know whether Steve’s run out of red pencil, but I think the napkin would look so nice covered in illustrations of your most gruesome and gory death.” Bucky leaned forward, straightening his cutlery in front of him and finishing off his meal. He gave a shit-eating, toothy grin. “I’m only joking, though. Don’t get your panties all twisted.”

Gilmore’s expression was fiery, and his army boot swung out and connected with Bucky’s shin painfully. Pain shot up his leg, but Bucky forced a neutral expression.

“Be careful what you say.” His eyes were blazing. “Maybe it won’t be me, next time we ship out, but you.” He gathered his coat from the back of his chair and flicked his eyes to Steve. “You coming home?”

Steve shook his head. “I promised a couple friends I’d meet with them after this. I’m sorry.” He lied.

“I can take him.” Bucky said, quickly putting his cap back onto his head and sidling out of the booth, beckoning Steve to come with.

Gilmore stood with his mouth open as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He shut it furiously, then opened it again. He looked like a very angry fish, and Bucky couldn’t find it within himself to muster up hatred for he was so looking forward to spending the rest of the night with Steve. Gilmore spun off into the crowded bar, scowling and muttering to himself, leaving Steve and Bucky blissfully alone with each other.

Bucky smiled at him, overcome with the urge to wrap him up in his arms. Instead, he offered his jacket - the green button down army one that he knew Steve secretly wanted. Steve accepted, and even let Bucky put it on his shoulders for him. It was too big, and he was drowning in it, but the faintest twinkle had been restored to Steve’s eyes, so Bucky guessed the frigid winter air was sufferable. 

He placed his hand with a careful, self-conscious gentleness on the small of Steve’s back, like the way one would approach an unfamiliar or dangerous dog. He knew Steve liked being touched like that, and sure enough, tenseness melted out of his shoulders and he walked closer to Bucky out of the bar. 

 

_________________

 

Bucky’s chest was thrumming with anticipation. 

The stars were littered haphazardly about the sky, so clear and bright from here, away from the main clutches of the light-infested city. The trees rustled gently in the breeze like a chiffon dress and the creamy-maple moon tipped from its pocket in the clouds. The world seemed more beautiful with Steve by his side and although he was unusually quiet, this was still his Steve.

And Bucky still ached for him.

Bucky pulled the car up to a standstill behind crookedly huddling trees that knit their leaves together and protected them from the tinsel-like rain that pawed at his window.

Saying I love you felt like casting a feather out into empty space. Perhaps more a request, than a declaration; seeking confirmation. The inflection at the end of the words, unsure and wobbly, fumbling fingers trying to find purchase on something. What strength was there to be had? It was weakening, thrown into some desperately vulnerable whirlwind, unarmored, alone and naked.

Yet, Bucky could not extract himself from his feelings and he certainly wasn’t going to extract himself from Steve’s life. A moment of silence overtook them, and they both started talking at the same time. And stopped. 

Steve blushed. The tips of his fingers were only just visible under the length and size of Bucky’s jacket, but he could see they were shaking slightly. He wanted to hold them.

“Sorry, you go first.” Steve said quickly, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them to himself.

Bucky smiled, wondering what would happen if he just drove off with Steve and never returned. He dismissed it, knowing that the current delusions of his loyal predilection were painful enough as they were. “Why are you with him?” He asked flatly. “You seem miserable when you’re with him, you don’t argue with him, or me, or anyone, which is disgusting, and from what I’ve seen he tells you what to do and you just do it. Where the hell have you gone to? Because if you’re only using him to help out with medical bills, I can pick up more jobs, and help around the house too - and why am I hardly ever allowed to speak with you anymore? I miss you! I’m sorry about what I said but I do promise it was my absolute honesty-”

Steve kissed him. Bucky’s words died at the back of his throat. It was like someone had opened all the champagne bottles of Italy, all at once. Magic spun in the air, a happy combustion, captured. Steve’s lips were soft and slow against Bucky’s. He kissed with precision and finesse, and he was on his skin, in his blood, light bursting out of the darkness as they kissed. Bucky was on fire, and yet completely calm at the same time, a warmth spreading throughout his body.

“Bucky,” he tried to say, too loud – too many words - so Bucky slid his hands into Steve’s hair - where they belonged - twisting silky soft strands around his fingers, and kissed him properly. It obliterated every thought, and the world melted somewhere into the background. He felt like he was soaring, the taste of him was intoxicating, the muted sounds escaping Steve’s throat, the burning touch of hands on his sides. His lips caressed Bucky’s for a moment more, before pulling back slowly, opening his eyes even slower. When they fixed on him, they were blown and all his walls were down, a vulnerable realness there. He leant his forehead against Bucky’s, studying him, and not trying to mask it at all.

“You've always known me well, Bucky.” He said.

Bucky’s lips quirked, as if Steve had made a joke too amusing to resist. He had to take a moment for his brain to catch up to form words. ”You make it difficult not to, Steve.”

He laughed quietly, his tiny frame shaking with mirth. Then his tone turned serious and his expression cleared. “I’m really, really sorry, Bucky. About everything.”

Bucky sighed and turned away, facing out the windscreen as if they hadn’t just had their first kiss, one that Bucky hadn’t been pining over for years. “What does everything include?” Bucky asked bitterly. “Pushing me away when I told you I loved you? Dating a complete asshole of a man? Not telling me the only reason you’re doing that is because of the money you need for medical bills? Inverting your personality completely? Where do I even start, Stevie?”

For a moment Bucky wondered whether he had been too harsh, but quickly his worries were dispelled.

“In my defence,” Steve started heatedly, sounding so much like the old Steve that Bucky really couldn’t get angry, “you were always parading around with some woman on your arm, making a whole scene out of it. Do you know how much it _sucked_ hearing you stagger in when we were living together, knowing what you’d just been doing? Do you know how much that hurt?”

“Is it true about your mother, then?” Bucky heard Steve swallow, but his silence was enough confirmation.

“Don’t change the subject, Bucky.” Steve demanded. 

“Oh, no, sorry you’re right,” Bucky spat back, “me casually sleeping with other women is so much worse than you letting yourself be _abused_ when you could have come to me first and asked for help with your mother. You know I would have said yes, you asshole.”

“It is worse!” Steve yelled back, grabbing him and planting a rough and aggressive kiss onto his lips before pushing him back into his seat. “And I’m sorry you don’t see it that way, but that’s the way it is.” He folded his arms across his chest in defiance. 

“Steve,” Bucky tried again, gentler this time, “I told you I loved you and you kicked me out.”

Steve reddened furiously and looked out the window, tracking rivulets of rain and steeling his jaw. “My ma’s really sick, Buck.” Came the steady reply. “I can’t think about that as an option out.” He drew a breath. “Besides, he’s not that bad, really. He supports the family. It’s an okay arrangement, I promise.” 

The thought of Gilmore’s dirty hands on Steve’s body made Bucky’s blood boil. “If you’re so happy with him then why did you kiss me just now?” He asked quietly.

He was not awarded with a response. Bucky refused to fill in the silence, at the risk of giving Steve a way to change the topic. 

“It’s too hard to be around you, Bucky.” He said. “I can’t be selfish. ma’s sick, and that takes priority. I’m sorry if I’ve been pushing you away.” His voice was shaking ever so slightly, and Bucky’s heart cracked and splintered. “I can’t bear being around you. It’s just too hard.”

Imploring, Bucky turned to face him and took up Steve’s hands in his own. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said, trying to fill his tone with as much hope and optimism as he possibly could, “I told you I’ll pick up more jobs, I’ll work so much that I don’t get to sleep, just please leave Gilmore, you don’t even have to be with me if you don’t want to — ”

“Of course I want to be with you!” Steve snapped.

“Then why —”

Steve shoved him away. “I’d like to go home now, please.”

“Steve…”

“Now, Bucky!”

Bucky let go of Steve’s hands reluctantly and turned the keys in the ignition, starting up the engine. The drive was silent and the string that tied their essential selves together tightened painfully. 

 

_______________

 

Despite everything that had happened, Bucky remained optimistic, in a desperate sort of way.

He was begrudgingly let back into Steve’s personal life, and although his personality fell back into meekness, Bucky sometimes saw flickers of old defiance and stubbornness that gave him hope. 

He was scouring the job market for places to fill, to ‘contribute to the war effort’, as government told them was their unparalleled duty. 

Many places were taken by women, and he dared not rip those jobs away from their eager faces, so he turned to more industrial labour strains of jobs, even though he detested it. By the end of the week, he had found a few placements in line-up factories for machinery, munitions - whatever helped lodged a bullet into an enemy’s skull. Bucky refused to think about it too long.

It was not that he was paid poorly — while it was no carriage-and-white-gloves fortune, part of being a Sergeant came with a decent salary as a motivating factor to enlist in such a job. So he’d train during the day, train others, teach them how to control shakiness that might make them miss their shots, how to scale walls and buildings quickly. At night he’d work on filling bullets and filing down various pieces of rough scrap iron into workable metal, welding smaller pieces together.

He’d repeat this, taking Saturdays off to go round to Steve’s house, where the pain and longing that he pushed to the edges of his awareness throughout the week centred itself right in front of him and forced him to keep going. Steve made various comments about his arms and shoulders bulking up while they danced in the living room to Count Basie, playing at love and yet denying him of the real thing. But otherwise, Steve remained unaware of Bucky’s life in the night. Steve’s scoliosis meant he couldn’t dance for all that long, so he’d cling to Bucky’s neck for support, and, Bucky, self-destructively, could not find it within himself to complain. Sometimes he’d stay the night at Steve’s, like it used to be, and cooked for him and his mother, tending to them equally before falling on the couch. The house was always cold, as Steve’s ma needed fresh air to accompany constant rest (some of the half-hearted treatments given to Tuberculosis) so they often ended up sharing a bed. Sometimes he could swear Steve was looking at his overturned back, but he hardly ever turned over to check, and when he did, Steve appeared to be sleeping soundly.

Steve tried to keep Bucky’s contact with Gilmore to a minimum, but dismissed whatever Bucky had to say whenever he tried to talk about him. And so the elephant in the room grew larger and larger.

Bucky tried to pick up extra roles in the military, too. Teaching the methods and techniques for sniping that got him to be a Sergeant in the first place. He demanded payment first and foremostly, which he was discovering was often not wanted to be given. 

Medications consisted of mainly different kinds of antibiotics, and with all those kinds of sterilising medications being directed to the war effort, it was difficult getting your hands on some. 

It took Bucky a good five weeks of training and working to buy some medication, feeling immensely  proud of himself and eager to tell Steve.

 

_____________

 

“So what happens when your ma gets better, what will you do then?” Bucky asked. It was a Friday night, and usually at this time he’d be with Gilmore, but luckily for Bucky, he had only recently been sent out on a mock mission in the bush. Bucky, too, had been called up to go but Bucky was insistent that he had to stay and train the lower-ranking forces, and that his time was valuable, that his Commander let him stay.

“What do you mean what will I do?” Steve muttered, concentrated on sketching the ducks waddling around the lake.

“If you don’t need the money, because she’s better. What will you do then?”

Steve glanced at Bucky testily. “I don’t know, Bucky. To me it doesn’t look like she’s getting much better, I don’t know about you.”

Bucky took the answer. It was so sunny that he had to squint his eyes, and had no idea how Steve was managing drawing with the white paper reflecting blindingly back into his eyes. “I need to tell you something.” 

“Mmmhmm?” Steve hummed, non-committed, and focused on his ducks.

“Steve.” Bucky said, hoping that his tone conveyed the importance.

It did. Steve looked up at him with horror. “You’re not getting shipped out are you?”

Bucky laughed. “No, no, that’s not it…”

Steve looked at him expectantly. 

“I’ve picked up a few extra jobs.” He started. “Because I wanted to help out, with your ma. Show you that you don’t need to rely on Gilmore.”

Steve opened his mouth to start speaking, and Bucky raised a hand. Surprisingly, he fell silent.

“I’ve bought medicines for the next month. With what Gilmore’s supplying you, that should be a good three months down.”

Less surprisingly, his silence did not last long. “What the hell, Bucky!” He protested, indignant. “I never asked you to do any of that! You… you, you idiot!” He yelled, searching for words, fist opening and closing against his knee, drawing forgotten. “This is such a you thing to do, honestly.” He said, turning away bitterly.

Bucky blinked. “I thought you’d be happy.”

Steve made a scoffing sound, but didn’t otherwise reply; and his pregnant silence told far more than words could. 

“I thought this way you wouldn’t have to feel like you need Gilmore in your life.”

Steve whipped around to face Bucky, furious. “It’s insulting how little you know, Bucky. You don’t know about our relationship. You think I’m just with him for his money, is that it? Is that how low you think of me?”

“I have never done anything but think highly of you, and you know it.” Bucky replied, struggling to keep his artfully concealed anger on a leash and his tone measured. People around them were starting to stare. “Stop kidding yourself about being with him for anything but his money. I’m not stupid, and neither are you, so stop acting like it.”

“He makes me feel safe.” Steve said.

He curled his lip sourly. “I want you to break up.”

Steve gave a hollow laugh. “Okay Bucky. Whatever you want.” And he got up and walked off.

Bucky didn’t pursue him.

 

_________

 

Gilmore came back with all the pomp and circumstance of a circus show, decorated in fake medals and attracting appreciative glances from women, and jealous ones from men. Those medals were just tokens, really, given out as a taste of the glory that comes with real medals. Any self-respecting person would keep them stored away or throw them out, Bucky thought. Gilmore wore them as if they were real, though, and anyone who wasn’t in the army didn’t know any better.

Now that Gilmore was back, his window with Steve had closed again and now they were distant once more. Sometimes in church, though, Bucky would catch Steve staring at him across the aisles. Sometimes he looked away and reddened, sometimes he held his gaze as if in challenge to see who would look away first. Other times his gaze lingered for a moment, and Bucky let himself believe that there was longing in that look. All times Gilmore would demand his attention back, and Steve would always give it.

The church’s hymns were played by a family — a father on piano and two daughters leading in song. The mother watched on proudly and her smile seemed like it was unable to fall, the father hollering and interjecting the song with spoken praises. In truth, neither daughter had music in their soul and no spell worked upon Bucky’s senses but a cantankerous envy of their happiness.

In the cafés after the morning service, the women were bare faced, and books stood between empty plates as people waited for their food. Bucky would watch the steady stream of people trickling from the great church doors from across the street, and, more than once as he gazed upon the groupings of the brilliant crowd flowing past him, he became enamoured by some small, blonde-headed isolated figure and his world sang for him alone. Under the influence of a tremendous, overmastering attraction, Bucky fell like an ocean onto his own thoughts and often waited a while before ordering any food. He was unsure whether it was truly being lost in his thoughts that caused this, or whether he was secretly hoping Steve would join him for breakfast one morning. The world turned out to be rather an indifferent parent. For looks grew heated, touches lingered and silences became crammed with unspoken and forbidden language. It was like some repetitive and inconsequent dream, a devouring passion that made Bucky a wax onto which Steve had put his seal.

 

_____________

 

The days kept insistently knocking at his door, and another week passed. 

The sun was going down, ambers and mauves scribbled in the margins of the sky like a child’s drawing. Bucky considered the heaven that was promised in that vast expanse of blue; some delusions were written for him and others were of his own making. Whether one was worse than the other — he could not exactly decide. 

He should have guessed that nothing this pleasant, enjoyable in its self-contained and modest beauty could remain uninterrupted. 

The sharp rap of knuckles at his door tore him from his peace and he stared at the door in abject annoyance before dragging himself out of his armchair to open the door.

It was Steve.

Eyes red-rimmed, hair a muss, wringing his wrists in his hands. An electrical surge of protectiveness ran through Bucky’s nerves, and the instinct to _hold_ and _protect_ overcame him with such overwhelming strength that he forgot to speak.

“Can I come in?” Steve asked, his voice wobbly.

Bucky nodded mutely, and stepped aside. Steve passed him and Bucky tracked him with his eyes like a dog, shutting the door and following him into the living room. 

Steve was taking off his jacket and curling his feet under him on the armchair Bucky was sitting on not moments ago. Steve folded the corners of the knitted blanket he kept thrown on it over his knees, seeking out what little warmth and comfort he could. Then he turned his eyes to Bucky’s, and the blue looked almost green when eclipsed with red. “Hey Buck.” He said shakily, and laughed.

Bucky crouched down low in front of him, like you would an injured animal and reached out for him with soft, caressing hands. Steve leaned into them with a broken sob.

“It’s done.” He said. “Gilmore and I — we’re… that’s it.”

Bucky blinked. “Oh.” He replied, dumbly. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Before he knew what was happening, Steve’s lips were planted on Bucky’s — messy and imprecise and hungry. Bucky froze for a moment, but Steve insistently bit at his lip and made Bucky deliver himself into his hands. He reached up to dig his fingers hard into Steve’s hair with a punishing force as if he were angry for Steve making him wait this long, and Steve moaned pitchily so Bucky licked deeper into his mouth. 

Steve plunged his arms into the folds of Bucky’s jacket and held onto him tightly, pulling him closer, stopping for a breath and turning his head to let Bucky kiss up his neck and suck at the knobbly corner of his jaw. Bucky pushed him back into the chair, pinning his shoulders down and taking and taking and taking. And Steve let him, gripping onto his back and running soft fingers down his ribs to balance Bucky’s forceful attack on his mouth and neck.

Bucky fumbled with the buttons on Steve’s white button down, slipping his pale body out of it and holding it between his hands, crushing it to his own body.

Out of air, he leant his head against Steve’s sternum and gasped.

He felt delicate hands slip into the strands of his hair and begin to card through them. His pants were uncomfortably tight and dug in to him in awkward places, but he dared not move. 

“I didn’t realise you muscled up this much.” Came Steve’s quiet voice above him.

He chose not to respond to that in fear of the conversation it would start. Instead he pressed the gentlest kiss he could to Steve’s shoulder. And suddenly one kiss wasn’t enough, and he continued the trail up his neck, over his jaw, around his mouth, one on the nose, between the eyebrows, and finally back to his lips, where he captured them sweetly, pouring as much adoration into it as he could. “Bed.” He whispered into them, pulling Steve’s shirtless body from his chair and locking their fingers together.

They kissed their way to the bedroom and Bucky set Steve’s form onto the bed beneath him, one leg laying beside Steve’s, the other on its knee — dominating and protective, yet still allowing him space.

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” Steve started.

Bucky kissed him, and he quietened. “Later.” He murmured. “This first.”

They slept together that night, the first time gentle and loving, the second time less so. They remained silent until the early hours of the morning where neither could force themselves to remain awake any more. Steve fell asleep first, and Bucky swore to himself that he would try to stay awake so he could watch Steve like this, pale eyelashes splayed against his cheek in the moonlight. Bucky wanted to touch him, and his heart became full knowing that he couldn’t — not because he wasn’t allowed, but because he didn’t want to wake him up. With Steve curled into Bucky, his forehead resting on Bucky’s chest, shoulders moving up and down with his breaths, Bucky didn’t want to fall asleep  and lose this moment. So he made sure to memorise all of this like a photograph just in case he’d ever forget. He seared the image into his mind and fell asleep with it folded neatly there.

 

__________

 

The sunlight streamed through the window the morning after. It was late morning — ten o’clock, and neither displayed any intention of getting up. 

Bucky had woken up to Steve looking at him; all gentle sleepy eyes and soft, upturned lips.

Bucky had opened his mouth to say a good morning, but he was met with a press of Steve’s lips to his own and he forgot what he was going to say. His head felt like it was swimming, and he rested his hand on Steve’s hip, nudging him away ever so gently.

Steve kissed for him for a moment longer before pulling away with a soft sound of disappointment.

Bucky cocked his head. “We should really talk.”

Steve laughed.

Both of them were still naked.

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

Bucky leant out to adjust Steve’s hair out of his eyes and behind his ears, then trailing it down to his chest and tweaking the nipples there, just because he could. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

Steve looked sad. “I know. I know sorry doesn’t cut it, and I’m going to be kicking myself forever, but I really do mean that I’m sorry for messing around with your feelings. I don’t have an excuse. I told you about the thing with ma and that’s the only reason I have.”

Bucky frowned and took Steve’s hand in his own, marvelling at the smallness of it. “So why did you get the way you did when I said I wanted to help?”

Steve sat up slightly, supported by his elbow. “I was angry at you — or maybe myself,” he corrected, “for picking up the extra jobs. I don’t want to feel like a nuisance or a hindrance to you.”

Bucky gave a sympathetic look, and let him continue, finding silence a far better tool to keep someone talking than asking questions. 

“I just feel really weak, most of the time. I’m sick of having to rely on loved ones, and I didn’t want to force you into the role of babysitter, or whatever, and Gilmore had the money, and all I really needed to do was date him for it.”

Bucky remained silent for a moment longer, trying to silence the self objection within him about his hurt feelings, why Steve thought Bucky would mind caring for him and his mother more than usual. This was bigger than him and his bruised ego and his need to be needed. This was Steve’s dismal sense of self worth. “Okay.” He accepted. “Then, did you always like me?”

Steve blushed and punched him. “Don’t ask that, jerk.”

A rakish grin crept its way onto Bucky’s face. “Since when?”

“Oh, God.” Steve, rolled over, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“Hey!” Bucky laughed, leaning over and trying to peel the arm away. “Come on, tell me.”

Steve took the arm away and his eyes turned serious. “I've never felt friendship alone for you, Bucky. So in that way, I guess you could say forever. I just don’t know why it took you so long to make a move.”

Bucky scoffed, but an indissoluble smile played on both their lips. “How the hell is this my fault? I’m not the one who was dating another guy.”

“No, but you —” Steve said indignantly, poking a finger into Bucky’s chest, “you made me think you couldn’t possibly like me with all the girls you would bring home.”

Bucky fell back on the bed and laughed, half at the hilarity of it all, half bitter at the time wasted between them. Mostly because he was overwhelmed with the all of it. “I’ve liked you for the longest, longest time.” He said, then turned to him ferociously. “Promise me this is the end of all of this.”

Steve nodded quickly and just as urgently. “Of course. I promise. And a beginning."

Bucky smiled softly and captured his lips again. “Good.”

 

_______________

 

 

Do you think we’ll grow old together?” Steve asked one evening. They often talked of their futures, painting it in hypotheticals and colours that reality would never see fit to let them know.

Bucky rolled over and said, “I know we will.”’

These fictions strung up a great and terrible fantasy like Christmas lights, blinking at them and reassuring them that they had something to look forward to, but the skeleton truth was undeniable: their fantasies and imagined, glossy worlds were little else than a respite from the one they had been given. In retrospect, this was perhaps the happiest moment in each of their lives, and they had spent it imagining something else.

 

 

_End of part one._


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